


Things that Go Bump in the Night

by sneetchstar



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 05:31:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9705434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sneetchstar/pseuds/sneetchstar
Summary: An unexpected late night encounter between new-ish roommates.





	

Crane's eyes blink open and he leans up on his elbows, blinking in the darkness of his now-familiar new room. Just as he begins to wonder why he awoke, he hears it again: a noise. A dull thud.

He knows that couldn't possibly be what has woken him. Not a noise that quiet. He sits up. He listens.

Someone is moving around in the house.

 _It could be Miss Mills,_ he reasons. _However, I have not yet heard her prowling around in the middle of the night in the three weeks I've been here._ He has learned that, despite of the horrors she faces every day, horrors perpetrated by both conventional and supernatural means, his partner is a remarkably heavy sleeper. So for her to be suffering from a bout of insomnia is quite out of the ordinary.

Crane flips the blankets back and swings his feet to the floor. He grabs a baseball bat he had earlier discovered in the closet. He lifts it and carefully gives it an experimental swing. _The balance is a bit different from a cricket bat, but I shall make do._

Moving quickly and silently, he makes his way out, following the sounds to their source.

The kitchen.

He nearly drops the bat.

There, haloed by the light of the refrigerator, is Miss Mills.

Or, more accurately, Miss Mills' posterior, covered only by a piece of tight-fitting material that leaves _very_ little to Crane's suddenly very active imagination.

She is bent over, rummaging for something in the freezer at the bottom of the fridge.

“Aha,” she quietly exclaims, straightening up, her prize held aloft. She turns and immediately shouts in surprise, jumping and nearly dropping the item. “Crane...” she exhales, recovering faster than her still-shocked partner. “What the hell?”

Her top half is covered as inadequately as her bottom half, clad only in what Crane has learned is called a “tank top”. It is tight fitting and short, and he is treated to the sight of a very enticing swath of smooth, flat, brown stomach above the waist of the curious rectangular pants she is wearing.

In fact, the only part of her that seems completely covered is her hair, which is wrapped in a black scarf.

He gapes, his eyes darting over her body, unable to find a safe place to land. Shoulders. Legs. Navel. Cleavage. Navel. Neck. Face. Navel. Feet. Hips. Navel.

_Scarf. Look at the scarf._

“Um...” he croaks.

“Earth to Crane,” Abbie says. She waggles the pint of ice cream at him. He groans and finally has the presence of mind to turn around.

Abbie sighs, not entirely surprised. She takes a moment to survey the surprisingly broad expanse of his bare back facing her. “Crane,” she repeats.

“Apologies, Lieutenant,” he says, his voice still strained.

“No, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you,” she apologizes.

“Do not worry yourself over it,” he says. “I shall just… return to my roo—”

“Crane, turn around,” she interrupts.

He can do nothing but obey. He keeps his eyes trained straight ahead, a foot above her head.

“Do you want to share?” she asks, reaching into a drawer for a spoon.

His eyes flit to the ice cream and he unconsciously licks his lips, his sweet tooth singing out a resounding _yes_. “Why… why are you up? You are normally such a sound sleeper,” he comments.

She sighs and leans against the counter, opening the ice cream. “It's a… monthly event. I get some insomnia the week before my…”

“Ah. I see,” he answers, setting the bat against the wall and cautiously stepping forward to inspect the pint in her hand. Chocolate with chunks of peanut butter cup. He unconsciously licks his lips again. “I… I believe that also explains the chocolate? At least that is what I am given to understand…”

“Yup,” she answers. “It's cliché, but whatever.” She shrugs and pops a spoonful into her mouth, closing her eyes as she savors the chocolate, enjoying the taste and feel of it as it slowly softens and melts on her tongue.

Crane's eyes are glued to her face, powerless to look away from her blissful expression.

Her eyes open. “Crane?” she asks, intrigued by his scrutiny.

“You are incredibly beautiful, Abbie.” The words are out before he can stop them.

She shyly looks down, then slowly lifts her eyes, allowing them to linger over his chest as they make their way back up to his face. He looks sleep-rumpled and tired, but very attractive – she hasn't seen him shirtless in a while – and just… _cozy._ Like she could curl up into him, snuggling against his chest. _Or climb him like a tree._ “Thank you,” she quietly answers. _Stupid PMS putting thoughts into my head._

_Yeah. Blame the PMS._

Wordlessly, without much thought, she digs the spoon in and holds it out to him, offering him a bite.

He looks at her face, then her hand. As he steps forward to take the ice cream from her spoon, his hand comes up to touch hers. He curls his long fingers around it, gently holding it.

He’s so close she can smell him, feel the warmth radiating from his body. “Ichabod…” she says, her voice soft and tremulous. “What are we…?”

“I don't know,” he admits, swallowing as he removes the spoon from her grasp and sticks it back into the ice cream. He kisses her fingertips one by one, and her eyes close.

“Be careful,” she softly says. “Chocolate isn't the only late night craving I get this time of the month.”

“Is that so?” he rumbles, kissing her thumb, then her palm. He moves closer, beginning to crowd her against the counter.

“Yeah,” she breathes, her neck straining as she looks up at him. She blindly sets the ice cream on the countertop next to her and lays her now-free hand on his chest.

She doesn't push him away. Her touch compels him to move closer still.

He drops her hand and grips her waist, lifting her onto the countertop. “Better,” he murmurs, his fingers splaying on her hips.

“Yeah,” she repeats, her legs moving to wrap around his thighs, pulling him the rest of the way towards her. Her small hands float over his chest, barely touching, not sure where to land. Finally, one settles over his scar, boldly tracing the ridge of it as though she is fascinated by it.

He stands, motionless, absorbing her touch, letting her take possession of this reminder of his past life, his death, and the horseman. Watching, rapt, as she transforms it into something wonderful and magical. Letting the dance of her fingertips and the – _oh, dear Lord in heaven_ – soft press of her lips turn the ugly white ridge into a beautiful, shining beacon that pointed him towards her.

“Abbie,” he rasps, fingertips lightly digging into her pliant flesh.

She leans back and looks up at him. Her eyes are dark and wide, her lips are slightly parted. He slowly leans forward, his lips seeking hers but still letting her lead.

He stops, nose to nose, as close as they can be without touching, and waits. Almost immediately, she leans into him, her lips finally connecting with his.

Ichabod groans low in his throat, welcoming her sweet tongue with his as it probes forward. His hands move from her hips to wrap around her narrow back, holding her small body against his. Her legs are smooth and strong, holding him flush against her.

Abbie's left hand slides up his shoulder and into his hair, her fingers threading into his tousled waves, while her right stays planted on his chest, her palm over his scar; over his heart.

“Abbie,” he repeats, sloppily dragging his lips down her jaw to her neck. “Mmm,” he hums against her fragrant skin, his beard scratchy-soft as he finds a spot that makes her gasp and gives it extra attention.

“Ichabod,” she whispers. “The ice cream...”

“Mmm-hmm,” he replies, not really paying attention. He is busy working his way to the other side of her neck, pausing to kiss the hollow of her throat. One hand has found its way to her breast and is caressing the stiff nipple through the thin material of her tank top.

“It's going to… melt…”

“I,” he rumbles between kisses, “am going… to melt…”

She laughs at this, squeezing him with her thighs, then hitches her knees a little higher, to his waist.

“Oh,” he softly exclaims, then kisses her lips. He trails one large hand down her thigh and back up, following the curve of her hip to her backside and then up, beneath her top.

“Ice cream,” she repeats, stronger this time.

He pauses his attentions, removes the spoon from the pint, and feeds her the ice cream clinging to it. Then he puts the lid back on and leans over to drop it back in the freezer, all without leaving the warm confines of Abbie's thighs.

“Do you have any other requests?” he quietly asks, eyebrow saucily arching.

She reaches up and unwinds the scarf covering her hair, then runs her fingers through it, teasing it free again. She knows she'll have to re-do it later, but she doesn't care at this point. That done, she leans forward and kisses him, draping her arms over his shoulders. “Bedroom,” she whispers. She squeaks and tightens her hold on him as he immediately lifts her off of the counter and begins walking with her wrapped around him.

He somehow finds his way to her room, and they tumble to the bed in a tangle of limbs and lips. She rolls him and yanks his cotton sleep shorts off before pulling her tank top over her head and throwing it to the floor.

“…” Crane’s mouth wordlessly moves, and Abbie’s lips curl into a sly smile at having rendered her loquacious partner speechless. Seeing this, he flips them and a second later, her panties are gone, joining the rest of the clothes on the floor.

He drops his head and closes his lips over a nipple while his hands explore the new expanse of soft brown skin he’s uncovered. She cries out in pleasure, her hands doing some wandering of their own.

She pulls his face up to hers so she can kiss him again, and reaches down to take him in her hand, moaning happily at the heavy feel of his thick length.

Then he touches her, his long fingers sliding into her warmth, and she cries out again, hips writhing under his ministrations.

“Oh…” she gropes to the side, digging blindly into the nightstand drawer until she finds a condom. _I can’t believe how close I am and he’s hardly done anything…_ Her thought is scattered when he finds the right spot, and she gasps. “Oh, there…”

He hums and acknowledgment, his lips busy at her breast again.

“Crane,” she says, trying to gather her wits as she opens the condom. “You gotta put this on, Ichabod.”

“Hmm?” he lifts his head, curious. “Oh. Yes, of course,” he immediately agrees, leaning back so she can roll the condom over his shaft.

Abbie doesn’t even have time to wonder what he knows about modern birth control, because he immediately lines himself up and slides into her, completely filling her. Her mouth opens in a wordless O at the feeling. _So good…_

“Oh, Abbie,” he groans, staying planted within her for a few moments. Then he begins moving, thrusting with long, measured strokes. One hand grips her hip while the other one moves up to her breast.

She catches his hand and pulls it to her face, kissing his fingers before dragging it down to caress her neck. She wraps her legs around him and brings his hand back up, sucking his finger into her mouth, swirling her tongue around it, then biting lightly.

“Ah…” she gasps, releasing his hand to reach up and grab his shoulders, pulling him down closer. “Kiss me.”

He bends his back to kiss her, not breaking his rhythm at all. She sucks his bottom lip before plundering his mouth for a few charged seconds before tearing her lips away, leaning her head back and saying, “Harder…”

Ichabod leans back slightly, takes her by the hips again, and thrusts harder as directed. Abbie cries out and wraps her hands around his arms, corded with long, slender muscles. “Yes…” He exhales the word, his eyes glazed, lips parted.

Their heavy breathing is accompanied by the loud thump of the headboard as it smacks against the wall with each thrust. Neither of them notice.

Her fingers tighten on his arms and she arches underneath him. “Oh… ah… ah!” she breathlessly exclaims, digging her nails into his skin as she comes.

He makes a delicious noise somewhere between a groan and a growl as he follows, thrusting deep and stilling, his body taut.

Then he melts, tenderly gathering her into his arms as he comes down. He rolls them to their sides, gently disengaging himself from her.

He disposes of the condom, then sighs, contented, holding her tightly against him, almost as if he's afraid she'll bolt. He knows there is a very real possibility she may do so.

“Damn…” she sighs, and his heart seizes for just a second before he realize that her exclamation was not one of regret.

Still, he needs to check. “I hope that was a _good_ 'damn' and not a bad one,” he cautiously ventures.

“ _Damn_ , Crane,” she repeats, lifting her head. “That was…”

“Damn?” he asks, biting back his grin.

“Yeah,” she agrees, laying her head back on his shoulder. She turns her face and kisses his collarbone. He runs his hand over her skin from shoulder to hip and back up again. She goes very still for a short time. So does he, and it suddenly makes her feel uneasy. “Do you…” she starts, pauses, then starts again, keeping her head on his chest to avoid his gaze, “Do you regret what just happened?”

Her voice is as small and insecure as he's ever heard it and he immediately gives her a reassuring squeeze. “I was just attempting to summon the courage to ask you the same question,” he replies.

“Really?” she asks, lifting her head. He raises an eyebrow at her, and she puts her head back down. “Okay, yeah, I get it,” she says, chuckling. “I don't have any regrets.” She sounds surprised by her own words. “Not at all.” She traces patterns on his chest, enjoying the feel of his skin and hair under her fingers.

“It pleases me to hear that, Abbie,” he replies, catching her fingers in his and stilling them. “Tickles,” he comments.

“Oh, does it?” she asks, trying to free her fingers. He holds them firmly but gently, lifting them to his lips. “You haven't answered my question,” she reminds him.

He ponders her tiny hand a moment before setting it back on his chest, covering it with his own. “My only regret is, in our haste, I neglected to give you the good and _thorough_ loving you surely deserve,” he says, kissing her forehead. She looks up at him, and he kisses her lips, shifting them so he is over her again. “The kind about which I have given far too much thought,” he admits, murmuring against her skin as he trails kisses along her jaw and down her neck.

“There’s always… mmm… next time,” she replies, her mind suddenly reeling at the possibilities his words promise.

“Indeed there is, my dearest Lieutenant,” he agrees. “And the time after that,” he adds, kissing her lips. “And the time after that…”


End file.
